The Princess's New Clothes



As many of you know, I have been toying with the idea of a full blown weekend retreat for a couple of months now.  I’ve looked at monasteries, ashrams, yoga retreat centers and hippie tent camps out in the middle of nowhere, in search of something that felt like it might be a road to inner peace.  Every day I’ve spent at least an hour thinking “Should I go or should I stay home and save my money?”  A couple of times, I even filled out the registration form for a yoga center in the Berkshires, only to chicken-out when it came time to hit “send.”  Figuring out how to de-stress has been a very stressful endeavor.

Fast forward to yesterday.  Immediately after writing yesterday’s post, I thought about how, even if I am able to love myself a little, in spite of my weight, I am never able to love how I look.  Every day I wake up and squeeze myself into clothes that are either too small or simply unflattering to my new body shape.  I spend each day feeling a bit like a sausage, pulling at hems and sleeves and waist bands, willing the clothing to grow bigger.  As many women do, I have refused, for some time, to buy replacement “fat clothes.”  It feels like buying new bigger-sized clothing is equivalent to admitting defeat and rewarding myself for bad behavior, all at the same time.  I’ve bargained with myself for many months – “If you lose fifteen pounds, you can get a new outfit.”  Needless to say, I haven’t gotten a new outfit in a long time. 

Then, when the mail came yesterday, I received: a girly magazine containing a feature story about a department store’s new line of plus size clothing; a flyer for that store showing all of that store’s cute plus size spring line; a coupon for 50% off my purchases at the store; a coupon for an extra $10 off my purchases at the store; and, a gift certificate (from a friend of mine who knows I’ve been feeling down) for that same store.  Okay God of All Things Retail…you have my attention.

I’ve decided that it is time to stop punishing myself for my weight gain by denying myself clothing that fits.  I have decided to stop fretting over spending money on a weekend getaway that may or may not make me more at peace going into this donor cycle.  I have decided that I can kill two birds with one stone by spending the money I would have spent on a weekend getaway on clothes that make me feel pretty and happy each day.  I will no longer be stressing every day about whether I should go away the next weekend because that money will already be gone.  Decision made.  And, in return, I will get the inner peace that comes from being confident about how I look.  Good bye Sausage…Hello Saucy.  At least that’s the plan.  Who knows?  Maybe the confidence boost will even motivate me to get out and get some more exercise so that I feel even better about myself.  I am also able to rationalize this decision by saying, “If I do manage to lose some weight, I will have cute maternity clothes lined up for awhile.”

You heard it here first…a royal decree has been issued – Today is Retail Therapy Day!  This Princess is getting some new clothes…and not the invisible kind!



The Portly Princess...

This morning, as I woke up thinking “Do I take the pugs for a walk, or do I curl up on the couch,” I realized that I am twice the woman I used to be…literally!  When I was doing pageants and modeling as a teen, I weighed slightly less than half of what I weigh now.  I have doubled in size.  The guilt and self-shame came washing in with that realization but…holding firmly to my recently found sunny outlook…I decided to examine the positives associated with where I was and where I am now.

I am twice the size I used to be and that is undeniable.  But…I am also twice the age I was when I was a little twig.  I also am twice the person I used to be in terms of experience.  Since age 16, I have lived through a physically abusive relationship, a break-up with my first true love, completing a four year psychology degree in three years, putting myself through law school, taking custody of my teenage sister, raising my teenage sister, keeping my mentally ill mother from ending up on the streets, moving to a new part of the state (three times), dating causally for a few months, meeting my husband and getting married, buying a home, working in a private law firm, working for the state, undergoing a appendectomy, undergoing a gall bladder removal, beating bulimia and anorexia, undergoing 6 failed IUI’s, undergoing 6 failed IVF’s, undergoing 6 laparoscopies, undergoing 1 laparotomy, enduring the loss of one ovary and one fallopian tube, the loss of my grandmother and aunt, and the loss of my naivety.  Because of these experiences, I now know that I am more than twice as strong as I ever would have thought I could be.

Even the doubling of my weight has been “helpful” in developing my personality.  When I was a tiny teen, I really believed that my best assets were my hair, eyes and legs.  I thought the best way to get what you wanted in life was to flirt, relentlessly.  I knew I had a genius IQ but, while I always got good grades, I worked hard to play stupid so that people wouldn’t expect too much from me.  I didn’t want people to know I was smart because that meant that guys wouldn’t like me as much…which was all I really cared about back then.  Being fat, you learn to find friends and boyfriends who actually like you for who you are…not how you look and what you do.  You learn that it is helpful to be pretty, but in the adult world, you can overcome any deficiencies in your attractiveness by being smart and a hard worker.  The converse is not true…employers will only put up with the pretty but incompetent girl for so long.  Being fat forces you to find self-worth in accomplishments, rather than compliments.  Being fat also forced me to stop being the superficial, judgmental brat that I used to be.  The girls I picked on in high school are skinnier than I am now (thank you Facebook).  No one seems to remember how mean I was about weight.  Old high school classmates say “You were always so nice!”  But I remember at least thinking nasty things about people, solely based on their looks.  And I am so glad that I am not that person anymore.

I am not saying that I wouldn’t give up a toe (maybe not a big toe) to lose all of the weight I’ve put on and go back to the pleasantries that go along with being thin and attractive…but only because I believe that I would never lose the lessons that I’ve learned as a fat person.  It has not been easy being twice the person I used to be…in any sense.  And I NEVER want to be three times the person I used to be…no matter what emotional self-growth that might foster.  But, today, instead of beating myself up over my weight gain…or obsessing over how long it would take me to lose all of that weight, only to declare defeat before I even get started…I am going to just relax and chalk it up to a life lesson.  My girth may have grown, but so has my heart…and for that, I am thankful.



Let There Be Light

Yesterday was a fabulous day!  There was no certain event I can point to that made it so good…it just was.  I felt more positive, happy and (dare I say it) hopeful yesterday than I have felt in a long time.  During yoga and acupuncture, my mind kept wandering to the questions: “Why am I so happy today?  What is different from yesterday, or the day before that?”  There are couple of possible answers to these questions, but I think I know the “best” answer…It was sunny!!!

After almost five months of (literal) bitter cold and grayness all around me, yesterday the sunshine came out and the temperature climbed into the low 60’s (Fahrenheit).   I was able to commute with my car windows down.  I was able to take a short walk outside on my lunch break.  It was delightful.  That one shift in my scenery – sunlight - filled me with a renewed strength that I had been desperately searching for during the last couple of months.  (In fairness…it was also St. Patrick’s Day…which means everyone was wearing my favorite color – green – and a lot of people were drunk very early in the day…making them much more friendly and pleasant to be around.  I also think that all of the awesome comments on my “Lucky Me” post made it a good day because it is just such a relief to hear that I am not overreacting…which is what all of the fert’s around me would say.  Support and camaraderie is so uplifting).  But back to the sunshine...

In fairy tales, there is always (or at least almost always) a portion of the story that happens in a dark place.  Sometimes storm clouds roll in.  Sometimes darkness falls over the land.  Sometimes the heroes of the stories find themselves trapped in a dark forest with their nemesis pursuing them.  And then…the sunlight reappears and you know that “happily ever after” is right around the corner.  If you look at a story book, “happily ever after” NEVER is depicted in stormy, gray, drizzly weather.  There is something about light and sunshine that evokes an emotional response, universally, within us as humans, and it allows us to believe in miracles and happy outcomes.  Authors know it…and now that I’ve thought about it, I know it.

Even though it is supposed to rain today, and Monday, and Tuesday…I am of the opinion that, if I can just grab onto the sunshine every time it appears and ride the wave of happiness that comes with it, I might be able to be where I want to be emotionally very soon.  I am seeing light at the end of the tunnel (sorry…bad cliché and bad pun).  There’s a chance that I will be able to go into this cycle hopeful that my nemesis – IF – is being left behind me.  And even though I know there will be set backs and bumps in the road between now and beta day (still a couple of months away), today I am feeling like my "happily ever after" might be on the way.    





Lucky Me...

Lately, I have been trying to get onboard the gratitude train.  But I have to say…if one more person tells me how “lucky” I am to have the resources to go through fertility treatments, my head is going to explode.  I get it.  Not everyone can afford IUI’s, IVF’s or donor egg cycles.  I’m blessed to have insurance and savings to cover the treatments.  But I really have to disagree about being “lucky.”

Recently, someone told me that I am lucky that I am dealing with infertility now, as the technology today offers more options for family building.  I also was told that I should feel lucky beacuse there are lots of women who want a baby but don’t have the resources to even try assisted cycles.  The person who recently said this to me is just one of many people (including infertility friends) to tell me why I am so “lucky.”  I’ve had it with the insensitive statements and I've had it with keeping my mouth shut about it.  Maybe the people making these statements didn't mean any harm, but that's kind of irrelevant when it feels like I got punched in the gut whenever I hear the words "You're so lucky."  So here is my rant about why no woman dealing with infertility should be told that she is lucky.

First, no one would ever say to someone diagnosed with cancer that they are lucky that they have chemotherapy and radiation therapy available now, because it wasn’t available in the past.  I’ve watched people go through the side effects of cancer treatments and the emotional pain and fear that goes along with a cancer diagnosis.  There is nothing “lucky” about any of it.  Maybe those with cancer today have better odds of survival now than they would have had in the past.  But they are not lucky and I don’t think anyone would dare tell them that they are.  Likewise, I am not “lucky” to have infertility treatments available to me that weren’t available in the past.  I still have infertility.  I still may never have a child.  The treatments available may give me better odds of having a child, but those treatments also include horrid side effects to medications that I have to inject into myself multiple times per day, every day, for a month at a time, or more.  I am glad that infertility treatments have come a long way, but I don’t think it is fair to say I am lucky to have infertility now, as opposed to infertility in the past.  I’m pretty sure that infertility is equally sucky, no matter when you have it.

Second, I know how blessed I am to be able to pursue ART options, especially the very expensive endeavor of using donor eggs.  I appreciate that there are women who haven’t had the opportunity to pursue ART because of financial considerations, and I think it is deplorable that there isn’t a system in place to make sure that infertility treatment is available to anyone who needs it.  However, again I would argue that I am not lucky to be able to pursue ART.  I would never say to someone who had a miscarriage: “You are lucky.  At least you got a positive pregnancy test.”  I wouldn’t say that because I am acutely aware of the pain that a miscarriage brings, especially for someone who desperately wants to be a mother, and I am aware that the only thing scarier to me than not getting pregnant is getting pregnant and then experiencing a loss of the pregnancy.  And yet, it seems to be perfectly acceptable for people to say to me “You are lucky.  At least you got to try 12 cycles of ART.”  Nevermind that they didn't work.  At least I got to try, right?  Yeah, I’m so lucky that I got to go through three years of side effects and have had more people looking at my nether regions than most strippers.  I’m so lucky that I got to go through three years of being sure that science’s involvement in my baby-making process would mean that I was going to get pregnant…only to find out that even science can’t seem to fix my broken plumbing.  I’m so damn lucky I can’t stand it.

I know I sound like a brat right now (and brat probably isn’t the word a lot of you are thinking of).  Really, I am not as ungrateful as I sound…or maybe I am.  I’m not sure, because I’m so angry.  But, on this day before St. Patrick’s Day, I have to say that I am not feeling particularly “lucky” and I would be much obliged if people would recognize that my pain isn’t lessened by having undergone 6 IUI’s and 6 IVF’s.  I still don’t have a baby in my belly or my arms, just like the women who need, but don’t have the resources, to go through ART.  I’ve suffered enough pain to deserve some validation that my situation isn’t lucky.  It sucks...because infertility sucks...no matter what the circumstances.



The Princess and the Pug...

NAPOLEON

JOSEPHINE

Yesterday, I got the kinks worked out with the donor coordinator regarding my cycle and the consents.  When I was telling my husband about it last night, he said “You are really a pain in the butt, aren’t you?”  That got me thinking, am I a pain in the butt or just on top of things?  I recognize that I have become so absorbed in second guessing every step of the preparation for this cycle that I have, thus far, failed to find any balance in regards to the upcoming cycle.  However, I’ve caught a lot of oversights, too.  Have I gone beyond “attentive” and on to “obsessive”?  Am I looking for things to be unhappy about?

I actually work with my therapist on this exact issue.  My life, even before infertility, was spent walking on egg shells, waiting for the next bad thing to happen.  My therapist thinks that I don’t really enjoy life because I spend all of my time waiting for the other shoe to drop – a learned behavior that protected me in the past but is no longer necessary and is potentially detrimental.  There’s no place in my life right now for joy to exist.  The therapist is of the opinion that I should be able to look back at this time in my life (the Infertility Age) and say “That sucked…but there were some good times, too.”  I can’t do that right now because, although I know that I do have fun sometimes, that’s not what sticks in my memory.  I look at the last three years and think about how exhausting everything has been.  I think about all of our failed cycles, all of the heartache, all of the medication side effects, and the stress in my relationship with the Prince.  I just remember that the Infertility Age sucked…no “but’s.”

I’m a little bit like my boy pug – Napoleon.  He has been skiddish since we got him as a puppy.  He’s seven years old now…and he still crouches down almost every time we go to pet him.  He’s WAY beyond submissive.  He acts like he has been beaten every day of his life, even though we don’t know of a single occasion of him being mistreated.  Something must have happened before we took him home and he just can’t let it go.  Each day, he forgets all of the affection we’ve given him for seven years…or how much he loves a good belly rub.  He seems to only remember what presumably happened to him long ago, and the memory and the fear that goes along with that event has shaped him into who he is.  So too, my fear and memories of past traumas and disappointments are keeping me from enjoying my life to the fullest.

Because of his fear, Napoleon doesn’t get the same amount of attention and affection as our girl pug – Josephine.  She is always in our face, demanding attention.  She remembers exactly how much she likes belly rubs and throws herself backwards on top of every lap she comes across, exposing her belly and looking up with the “What’s taking you so long?” look.  She’s fearless and she clearly enjoys her life.  I wish I was a little more like her.  Able to just trust that I would get what I want…each time…even if experience has shown me that I wouldn’t always get the “belly rub” I am seeking.

It’s funny to think that I am now so neurotic that I am learning lessons from my dogs, but that’s where I am at.  Napoleon is loved dearly and is shown how much he is loved, every chance we get.  But I can't say that he has been rewarded for his fear.  And no fairy tale hero is ever rewarded for being a coward.  In fact, cowards and very negative characters in fairy tales generally face nasty consequences for displaying those characteristics.  I really want this cycle to be the best chapter in my story…and to achieve that, I know I need to dump the fear and just go for the belly rub.  Now I just have to figure out how to do that.



He said...She said...But They Really Meant...



There are no fairy tales (or at least none that I know of) in which the princess and prince speak different languages until magic steps in and causes the language barrier to crumble.  There should be.  With all of the other analogies to real life situations that fairy tales cover, why not an analogy for the most common problem between couples – miscommunication.

Last Saturday, the Prince and I went to marriage counseling.  The Prince, as usual, threw a bit of a fit about going…picking a fight as soon as I woke up and stating that he wasn’t going.  He openly admits to our counselor that he hates coming to counseling.  He even understands that he hates counseling because he is very uncomfortable dealing with feelings and emotions, whether they be mine, his, or someone else’s.  However, the Prince went to our appointment on Saturday and, as usual, he admitted at the end of the session that the counseling was helpful and that he wanted to schedule another appointment.  And I have a theory about why he values marriage counseling even though I think he does actually hate it.

My theory is that the Prince recognizes the magic that is occurring in the counselor’s office when the counselor translates between Man Speak and Woman Speak.  I also think that, somewhere buried deep inside the Prince, there is an “observer” that recognizes that being forced to sit in a room, as opposed to running away, while I cry and express my feelings about infertility is a valuable exercise for him.  He needs to hear what I have to say, but he doesn’t want to because it makes him feel “too much.”  Having to hear it in a safe and controlled setting must make him feel more connected as a husband, whether he is able to fully understand what he is feeling and why, or not.

On Saturday, I brought up my intense fear that the Prince is going to run away emotionally when things get tough this cycle…which they will.  The Prince feels that I am being pessimistic about the cycle and that he thinks it is going to work this time (yeah…at least one of us is Positive Polly).  I explained that I’m not talking about the outcome of the cycle, I’m talking about hormones swirling through my system as we go through our most critical cycle yet…right before mother’s day.  I need a plan for us to handle my mood swings and any potential set backs, so I can feel some security going into this cycle of the unknown.  The counselor pointed out to me that the Prince is being optimistic that this time is going to work and that I should feel comfort in that, using him as a rock when my hope falters.  The counselor also made the Prince remember a time when he was terrified of something that was out of his control (of course the Prince chose an example from when he was six years old), and asked him to remember that feeling every time I cried or asked for comfort.  At one point, the counselor even forced the Prince to follow the source of his aversion to answering a certain question until the Prince finally blurted out “It sucks that I can’t fix this!  What does she want me to do?  I can’t fix it.”  I started crying…tears of joy.  I’ve waited three years, hoping to hear the Prince say that.  Not because I want him to be frustrated or uncomfortable, but because every other IF husband I know of will say how badly he wants to fix the situation to spare his wife pain.  This counseling session was the first time the Prince indicated that his avoidance behavior was about his own pain and feelings of helplessness, as opposed to irritation with me.  It was the first time I heard him say that he wanted to make this easier for me and recognized that he couldn’t.  I know that’s not the exact words he used, but as the counselor pointed out…that’s really what the Prince said.  The counselor was able to break down the language barrier, turning Man Speak into Woman Speak for just a little while…and that takes magic.



Royal Pain in the Butt...



Today I received our consent forms for the cycle.  The “royal decree,” if you will.  As in most fairy tales, we need to know what the rules are for the next leg in our journey.  I thought it would be exciting to get the forms...more information (ahhhhh sweet information)…a catalyst of sorts.  Something that would sling me into a “go-getter” attitude about this donor cycle.  It wasn’t everything I had hoped for.  Instead, the more I read, the more I cried.  Instead of being a royal decree, the forms have been a royal pain in the a$$.

The donor coordinator messed up the medications she had previously told me I needed to supply, meaning I have to pay $1500 more for meds than I had anticipated.  The financial information is also different from what I had been told.  I was told I would pay $4200 and my insurance would be billed for the rest…and that I might even get a refund from the $4200 depending on what the insurance covered.  But the consent form says that I have to pay $6200 up-front or $4200 and $167 per month for 12 months.  There is no mention of my insurance coverage or of any reimbursement.  I’m so frustrated.  There is other paperwork (like our expected medication schedule) that is not filled in.  There are medication directions that are contrary to what I have been told by my clinic and contrary to what I have been taking right along.  It all just makes me sick.

I know, in my head, that this is okay.  The important stuff (like my name, the Prince’s name, our donor number, etc.) is correct on the forms.  It is just clear that the donor wasn’t paying very close attention…okay…not paying attention at all when she filled out the majority of the consent forms.  It will be okay.  Even if we have to pay more money up-front, it’s not like we don’t have it in the bank (barely).  I won’t be happy…but I know it will be okay.  Nothing so far, even the medication screw-ups, is a deal-breaker for our cycle.  But for someone as detail-oriented as I am, this is like a slap in the face.  I want to yell “Don’t you understand how important this is to me?  If your only chance at getting the most important thing in your life depended on you getting information right…I’m betting you would pay closer attention to what you are doing!”  I won’t yell, though.  And I know I’ll even stop crying (soon).  But right now, I’m really angry.  I don’t know what is going on in this woman’s personal or professional life that might account for the oversights, and I probably should be more understanding and less quick to judge.  But if being an egg donor coordinator was my job, I know I would be empathetic and would make sure that I made everything as smooth as possible for the couples involved.  This woman does not do that.  She clearly did not even proofread the “royal decree” before she sent it to me.

My husband was told in marriage counseling this morning that he needs to be “the rock” this cycle.  He needs to step in whenever he can to help out.  The Prince has always been willing to deal with the donor coordinator…since the first time she made me cry.  But I am never willing to let go.  I think I feel like everything is so out of my control…I have to keep the communication with the coordinator as “mine,” because it is control over information…and that’s something.  However, when the Prince said today, as I cried and complained about the forms, “Let me deal with her from now on.,” I said, “Okay.”  I will make the phone call on Monday to try to straighten things out…only because I am the one that directly received information from the coordinator contrary to the information she is now providing.  After that, any more bumps in the road are going to be handled by the Prince…even though he doesn’t know an egg from an embryo (still).  “Let go” is frequently my yoga intention (the thought or goal you strive for and focus on during a yoga session).  So…I’m practicing letting go by taking this one step…and it is really scary.

And They're Off...

The long awaited event has finally arrived.  My donor started her period yesterday, so we’re off to the races.  The donor coordinator didn’t call to let me know (big surprise), but there is an online “patient portal” where you can view your lab work, u/s results, instructions, consent forms and flow sheets for each cycle.  The flow sheet for my donor cycle had been updated with anticipated dates for the beginning of the cycle and apparently the consent forms, and the bill, are in the mail with my instructions. 

The patient portal says I will have my baseline ultrasound on April 1^st, to check that I am not pregnant, etc.  Then, if I am still suppressed (which I appear to be, as my period “scare” last Friday was a fluke that only lasted a few hours), we all move forward with medications (Lupron all around…assuming I need it) starting on April 3^rd.  The donor should get her period by the 8^th or 9^th, and she will have her baseline ultrasound on the 9^th.  Then, presuming all is well (pleeeeeeeze let it all be well), she will start her stimulation medications and the other recipient and I will start estrogen.  If the donor has an average stimulation cycle (8-12 days), egg retrieval will be around the 21^st.  Making my beta test right before Mother’s Day.  I guess better to know than not to know, right?

I had anticipated this schedule, and had told the Prince to hold open all of late April.  So, what does he do?  He schedules a surgery for himself for April 21^st!  He scheduled it last week.  I asked him to change it.  He refused.  And here we are…right where I expected us to be.  Realistically, we can get from the city where he has to drop off his "contribution" on egg retrieval day to our city within a couple of hours.  So…getting back by the time of his afternoon surgery won’t be a problem.  But really?!?  We need more stress right then?!?  Plus, he is having cartilage removed from behind his ear (a revision surgery of his prior “ear-pinning-back surgery” in July).  So he has to wear a bandage wrapped around his head and he will be on pain meds for a week after the surgery.  That means, come embryo transfer day, I will be driving to the other city (and back) and he will be attending what could be one of the most important events in our lives high on oxycodone…or worse…grumpy from pain.  He is adamant that he won’t reschedule and I am trying not to be angry with him, but it’s tough…with all of the sacrifices I am making…I just feel like he should be able to make this one sacrifice.  he would have to wait until July if he doesn't do the surgery now...but I feel like...it's cosmetic surgery...who cares?

So, bottom line, I am really excited that things are finally moving.  And I finally have a plan (phew!).  But, at the same time, I am frustrated with my husband.  I am scared about whether this is going to work.  I am concerned that things are starting without me being in a mentally positive place…something that has never happened before.  My track record shows that the power of positive thinking is crap…but what if it isn’t?  I feel like I need to believe this is going to work…and I’m not there.  I am also a little emotional about using a donor.  I know that the time has passed for me to be wavering on whether I am okay giving up on having a child that is genetically mine…and I know that if I get pregnant it won’t matter whose DNA is coursing through the baby’s veins.  But I still feel conflicted about giving up on that child I had dreamed of…the one with my eyes and my hair and my crooked smile.  My ultimate dream, right now, is being able to enjoy this cycle.  I want to not stress out about every little thing (including my husband’s toddler ways) and just be happy that I have an opportunity that so many women never have.  I want to be thrilled that my chances of getting pregnant are insanely higher than they’ve ever been.  I want to be grateful for the gift the donor is giving me.  I just wish wanting to change how I feel was enough to cause the change to occur.  For now, I will have to settle for going to yoga and acupuncture tonight, and praying for a breakthrough.

P.S.  Thank you so much, ladies, for following this blog and posting your thoughtful and kind comments.  I don’t get to go back and comment on your comments very often, but I want you to know that they make all the difference in the world to me and I can’t imagine doing this without you…whoever you are.  J





Positive Polly Doesn't Live Here Anymore



Last night, I went to the support group (hereinafter “group”) held at my infertility center for the first time since November.  I have been on a hiatus because I had already befriended most of the group members during the last two years, and I had watched as, one-by-one, they graduated out of the group when the stork visited each of their houses.  I just didn’t feel like I could handle watching another “class” of IF gals move on in their journey, while I sat watching from the support group sofa.

But, for whatever reason, I decided to try going to group again…last night.  I’m glad I went.  It was nice to be in a supportive environment.  However, everyone at the group was new, except for my one friend (left behind from the second round of group’ers that got pregnant…we’ll call her “Patience”).  Patience has had four miscarriages in a row and, somehow, she is still standing and still getting her butt to group each month.  Patience deemed us the “senior members,” at the beginning of the meeting.  We were the only two veteran IF gals.  I think the title made me feel a little conflicted.  You never want to be the “senior member” in an IF group.  You want to be a “graduate.”  But, there is also a weird sense of respect that goes along with “senior membership” status.  You almost wear it as a badge of honor…something to prove how much you have survived…a testament to your strength and resiliency. 

Newbies looked to Patience and I for guidance last night, and our words carried a lot of weight, so we had to choose our words carefully.  I really censored a lot of what I said and what I shared because I was trying not to be too negative, given the crowd.  There were so many women there who had only just received their infertility diagnosis, or had just survived their first miscarriage.  They were all so hopeful that this was going to be a very short journey for them.  They all truly believe that they will get pregnant this month (or their next cycle) and will leave all of this sadness behind them.  And some of them will be right…their journeys will be short…but most of them will be wrong.  They don’t yet realize that they are in a marathon, not a sprint.  How do you tell someone to prepare themselves for the worst without quashing their hope?  As the group went on, you could see that a couple of women, frequently the ones who had suffered losses, exhibited signs of cracks in the hard exterior of hopefulness they’ve cloaked themselves in to get through the awfulness.  I didn’t want to be responsible for making those cracks deeper…but I also don’t want to mislead anyone.  Patience and I worked had to be realistic, discussing ways to prepare emotionally for the possibility that the journey may take longer than anticipated.  But we also tried to remind them that a lot of women had graduated from the group and a lot of women just need a little help to get pregnant.  There is a reason there are only a couple of senior members.  We are an anomaly.

As I watched the effect that our words had on the newbies, I was saddened.  I heard the contrast between my outlook and theirs.  They are all a “Postive Polly,” certain that sunshine and rainbows and lots of babies are right around the corner…waiting for them to round the bend and trip into their “happily ever after.”  I’ve become a “Negative Nelly.”  I don’t believe there are rainbows and sunshine around the corner.  In fact, when I get to a corner, I peek around it to make sure I’m not walking into a wall of heartache and emotional devastation.  I’m not excitedly running to see what comes next.  I’m standing back and wondering if it is even worth taking another step.  This journey has been too long, already.  Please let it be over soon…so I can go back to being Polly.



Facebook Is NOT My Friend

(Not my rainbow...but similar)

This morning, I woke up and went to my computer to check my email and Facebook page.  I had a couple of messages on Facebook, one of which was a video message from The Prince’s cousin.  It was a video of her four-year old daughter announcing that there was a baby “this big” (picture a child making her fingers in the shape of a peanut) in her mommy’s belly.  She went on to say that she was announcing that in October, she will be a big sister.  The video announcement was adorable, really, but watching it, I felt my eyes welling-up with tears (a feeling I am becoming all too familiar with).  I sent back the obligatory “congratulations!” to the cousin before opening the next message.  I kid you not… the very next message was a picture of my “friend’s” pregnant belly, and its progression throughout the last few months (she’s due in late May).  Thanks!  Just what I always wanted…pictures of your pregnant belly!  She doesn’t know about my struggles with infertility, but really?!? Who wants pictures of someone else’s pregnant belly?!?

It seems as though every day, I start my day with a review of my Facebook page, only to be assaulted by a barrage of baby updates.  This weekend, my mother-in-law’s status was that she was “going baby shopping with her baby.”  My sister-in-law is constantly gushing on Facebook about how amazing it is to be pregnant.  They know about my infertility struggles and how hard my sister-in-law’s pregnancy has been on me, but for some reason, people seem to not mind saying things on Facebook that they would never say in-person.  Infertility friends post constant updates about their pregnancies, knowing that their friends who are still struggling with infertility will have to read those posts.  Family members send me messages announcing their pregnancies and saying things like “It’s gotta’ be your turn soon.”  Yeah. That’s what I’ve been saying for three years, but each morning, I find out it was someone else’s turn…not mine.

So this morning, I was driving to work, thinking about how I really am doing this to myself.  I could boycott Facebook and save myself the pain, but I don’t.  It’s like watching reality television…you know it is going to be a painful experience but you do it anyways…just because.  Then…mid-miserable thought…I saw it!  A rainbow in the sky, in the middle of winter!  I’ve never seen a rainbow in a New York winter, and it brought an immediate smile to my face.  Having attended church as a child, I immediately thought “God’s promise.” (Noah’s ark reference).  Smiling, I drove down the road, remembering the rainbow but also letting my thoughts drift back to the Facebook conundrum.  I came to the realization that I am not going to stop using Facebook…even though it is not my friend right now.  I like the convenience of knowing each day how all of my friends and family are doing (Yes…even my pregnant family and friends).  But…I RAINBOW-IN-THE-WINTER-SKY-PROMISE that, when my turn comes around, I will not post: (1) my pregnancy announcement, (2) a due date calendar, (3) updates about each ultrasound and kick, (4) pictures of my pregnant belly, or (5) pictures of my ultrasound photos.  I will find other ways to let the people I love know about my pregnancy updates.  And, if I fail to uphold this RAINBOW-IN-THE-WINTER-SKY-PROMISE, may a winter rainbow come down from the heavens and BONK me right on the crown.



The Pooped-out Princess (a.k.a. the Drained Diva)



This weekend was incredibly difficult.  I had three breakdowns during my friend's baby shower.  I would feel the tears starting to well-up in my eyes and I would make a hasty exit to the bathroom, where I would sob for a few minutes (hoping that no one was listening at the door), and then try to fix my make-up and put on a brave face to reenter the baby shower.  It wasn’t just the whole “baby shower” scene that got to me, it was all of the talk of pregnancy and newborns (there were three at the shower) and the constant questions about whether I had any children.  I had given my pregnant friend a ride to the shower and, given that she has gone through infertility, she could see what a mess I was two and-a-half hours into the shower, sandwiched in a seat between to newborn babies and their doting grandmothers.  She pushed me to leave and I can’t say that I put up much of a fight.  Even though I left a little early, I’m glad that I went to the shower.  I have an idea of what is going to trigger a crying fit now, and I know when I am reaching my limit of stress and sadness.  As for shower ideas to steal…I now know that I will never invite 40 people to my home for a baby shower and I will likely do gift-opening while everyone else is eating, so as to move things along.  There can be too much of a good thing...just ask my friend...her relatives stayed for 9 and-a-half hours before she finally shooed them away.

Surprisingly, my visit to the maternity ward to see our friend’s newborn, later in the day on Saturday, was easier to get through than the baby shower.  I held the baby for a long time, changed a dirty diaper and gabbed with the proud mommy and daddy.  Even as I sat in the hospital room, I wondered what was so different about holding my friend’s newborn and sitting next to the newborns at the shower?  Why did one feel good and the other send me into a tailspin.  I decided that the shower was more difficult because there was so much going on there that I couldn’t deep breathe my way through the whirlwind of emotions.  I couldn’t stay calm because I wasn’t in a calm environment…I was at a party.  When I’m not overwhelmed, I can make it through baby-time.  In the quiet I can find strength.  But organized chaos is not my friend.

I also had no difficulty at my friend’s house, on Sunday, tumbling around with her toddler twins.  I can’t say that I never got sad while playing with the little angel-faced babes.  Sometimes they would run into their mother’s arms, yelling “Mommy!”  And then they would smile as she scooped them up in a hug.  That was hard to watch without tearing-up.  I wasn’t jealous…it was more complicated than that.  It was like the intensity of the happiness they felt when they were in her arms radiated off them and onto me.  I was tearing-up because the intense happiness was so scary to me, and it felt so foreign to me, that it triggered immediate sadness and feelings of loss.  Luckily, those feelings would pass quickly…usually as soon as one child hit the other over-the-head with a block or whatever blunt instrument was available…as children do.

I had said going into the weekend that I would need to look at this weekend as a learning experience.  A chance to press up against my boundaries and see where they are at right now.  An opportunity to learn how to cope with my emotions in public.  In that sense, this weekend was a success.  But the lessons left me emotionally exhausted and I think I need to give myself a little bit of time before testing my own limits again.    

Desperately Seeking Serenity...

Okay.  I’m taking a break from Snow Why’s story because I need to solicit some support to get through this weekend (and today).

This morning, the Prince sent me an email asking if I would like to go to the hospital tomorrow to see our friends who just gave birth to a baby girl early this morning.  The email had pictures of the newborn and her proud Daddy and Mommy attached to it.  As soon as I opened the pictures, I started crying.  Partly because I am really happy for our friends (they are the same couple who brought their three-year-old girl, and all of her stickers, to our house for the Super Bowl), but also because the sight of a newborn is breaking my heart.  The Prince added at the end of the email, “I hope it is okay that I sent this to you, and whatever you need to do, I’ll understand.”  That got me outright bawling.  For the Prince…that statement was a huge leap into the land of empathy – someplace he rarely dwells.  It gives me hope that he is starting to “get it.”  Of course I have to say yes to going, to reward the Prince for being awesome about this and because I care about our friends and want to share in their happiness, but I am terrified that I am going to go in to the maternity ward and just start weeping.  Or worse, sometimes when I am around babies or pregnant women, I get this weird distant attitude.  I think I come off as being crabby, when I don’t feel crabby.  I think it’s some strange self-protection strategy, but I don’t like being that way.

I replied to the Prince’s email that we could go tomorrow, but it would have to be in the late afternoon because I have a baby shower to attend tomorrow at noon.  Yeah…the baby shower marathon officially begins tomorrow.  Although I feel like I’m okay to handle the shower (at least today I feel okay about it), I have no idea how I am going to respond when I actually get there.  The shower is for a friend of mine who went through her own infertility battle and she is awesome about the whole thing.  She told me long ago that I have a free pass if I don’t want to go or if I don’t want to stay.  But I’m a “people-pleaser” and I would feel worse about not going and staying for awhile than I would about being there…surrounded by baby-fever.  Plus, I already braved the baby store to get the gifts…the shower itself might be better than that experience.

To top off the weekend festivities, The Prince and I are going to spend Sunday with my really good friend from the firm I used to work at.  She is still there, working crazy private practice hours.  That means we have no time to get together before, during or after work hours.  She also has twin two-year-old boys and a seven year-old-boy…who was just diagnosed with Aspberger’s.  She’s devastated over the diagnosis (the doctors had misdiagnosed him and have been medicating him for two years for ADHD).  She also blames herself for not being around enough to realize what was going on with him.  She needs a friend right now, and she has stuck by me and my self-imposed distance for years now.  She’s never had fertility problems, but she is so understanding, you would think that she had.  The least I can do is be there for her and her family when she needs me.  But, because of the size of her family, and the scarcity of time she gets to spend with them, supporting her means going and being around the kids (who are serious cuddlers).

I don’t know if I am strong enough for all of this.  I’m sick of being selfish and putting my needs ahead of my friends’ in the name of self-preservation.  But I feel like the cup of what I can handle emotionally is already full and there's more that needs to go in the cup...I just don't know how to keep it from overflowing all over the place.  At a certain point, don’t I have to push my comfort boundaries to see what I am capable of?  But how do I get past this fear?  How do I stop crying just thinking about this?  Sorry to vent…I just don’t know what else to do right now.  Thanks for “listening.”
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Post Script-  On top of everything else, today, for the first time in almost a year, I had a spontaneous non-induced period.  I know I should be happy that I can still cycle on my own, but it messes with my donor cycle and it messes with my emotions - which are clearly already a mess.  UGH!



Snow Why and the Seven IVF's (Chapter Two) - Dr. Doom



…Yes, the only thing to be done was go to the kingdom healer “Dr. R.E. Doom.” 

Getting the Prince to go to Dr. Doom’s lair was not easy.  The Prince had a foreboding feeling that getting Dr. Doom involved was going to call for a more active involvement on the Prince’s part…and he was right.  It was bad enough that Dr. Doom had charts of female organs and pictures of babies all over the walls of the cave he dwelled in.  But when Dr. Doom informed the Prince that he was going to need a “sample” from the Prince, the Prince freaked out.  Forgetting, or not caring, how hurtful his words could be, he yelled out (well maybe he didn’t yell…but it seemed like it to Snow Why at the time) “Snow Why is the one with the problems!  Not me!  Why do I have to give a sample?” 

Snow Why flinched at those words.  She had always been honest with the Prince about a curse that had been placed on her at a very young age – the Endometriosis curse.  The curse had caused crippling pain, and had led to Snow Why having multiple surgeries, chronic adhesions and random bleeding.  The curse had led to a decision to induce a sort of chemical menopause in Snow Why to prevent the spread of the curse into other areas of Snow Why’s body.  The curse had even taken away one of Snow Why’s fallopian tubes and one of her ovaries.  The Prince and Snow Why didn’t use birth control during their relationship because Snow Why had suspected that she would need a little help lifting the curse long enough to get pregnant.  If nothing else, she would have to discontinue taking the medicine that had stopped her periods for so many years - Lupron.

But the Prince had never expressed any concern about Snow Why’s curse until that moment, in Dr. Doom’s office…and it was as if the Prince had slapped her across the face.  Snow Why, for the first time, felt as if the Prince saw her as damaged and blamed her for their inability to get pregnant.  Snow Why would never forget that realization and a little part of the blissfulness that had once defined their relationship was lost, never to be found again.

Dr. Doom seemed to have dealt with difficult princes before because without skipping a beat, he stated “We don’t know what the problem is yet.  We really need a sample from you and then we’ll regroup.”  The Prince begrudgingly provided his sample (little did he know that this was just the beginning of what was to become a three year “love affair” with specimen cups).

At the next trip to Dr. Doom’s lair, he started by bringing out a large packet of papers.  One of the first papers was the analysis results of the Prince’s sample.  It turned out that the Prince had multiple “problems,” too.  Apparently, he had also had a curse placed on him.  Is curse caused him to only produce about half the tiny swimmers one would expect him to have and a good portion of the Prince’s swimmers didn’t swim or swam in circles.  As Dr. Doom explained the results, the Prince just listened with his mouth gaping open.  The Prince would eventually demand a second test…only to find that it yielded the same results (apparently even brave princes can experience denial when given bad news regarding infertility).  The Prince was placed on more magic pills and Dr. Doom stated that there was a turkey-baster technique that had helped some people who came to Dr. Doom get pregnant.  Dr. Doom, true to his name, informed Snow Why and the Prince that he held out little hope of the strange technique, which he referred to as IUI, working for the couple, but it was worth a try.

And so, the Prince took his magic pills, called Clomid, and Snow Why began injecting herself with a complicated mixture of poisons (Follistim, Menopur, Estradiol Valerate, and Ganirelix) provided by Dr. Doom and the Alchemist.  The poison was supposed to increase Snow Why’s chances of getting pregnant, but it made her terribly sick, moody, and caused her stomach to turn a dark purple color.  Luckily for Snow Why, one of her surgeries to deal with her curse had left her with no feeling on her stomach, so the injections were not as painful for her as they could have been.  Snow Why and the Prince took Dr. Doom’s mandatory class, explaining strange mystical terms that he would use in his “treatments” – terms like “follicles,” “ovulation,” and “beta tests.”  Prior to seeing Dr. Doom, the Prince had thought that he was already hearing more about Snow Why’s internal plumbing than he cared to.  After leaving Dr. Doom’s class, an ashen Prince didn’t speak for hours, overwhelmed and in disbelief of the effect that the class had on Snow Why.  You see, Snow Why, the Type A kind of girl that she was, was excited to soak up all of the knowledge being provided, because it provided her with hope that they could manipulate the factors and get the desired outcome.  If only she had known at that time that her hope was misplaced…



Snow Why and the Seven IVF's (Chapter One) - Once Upon A Time

A few wise friends of mine (Thanks, ladies) told me that I should attempt to distract myself for the next couple of weeks, as I wait for the next leg of my journey to begin, and so…I’m going back to the beginning of this journey and am going to start really focusing on the fairy tale that I promised when I began this blog.  Perhaps weaving fact and fantasy together will provide a much needed distraction for me.   And without further ado…I present Snow Why and the Seven IVF's.

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ONCE UPON A TIME, in a land far away, there was a beautiful young princess with skin as pale as the driven snow.  Really.  She had to use a ton of blush in the winter and ten minutes in the sun in the summer left her looking like a lobster.  Because of her porcelain complexion (and not because she did a lot of cocaine…that was a different princess), she was affectionately referred to as “Snow.”  Snow was perfect…well…almost perfect.  Snow was a little over-analytical, constantly questioning everything around her.  Snow’s very first word as a babe was “Why.”  It would be a word she used so frequently throughout her life that by the time she reached her teenage years, most people referred to her as Snow Why.

Snow Why lived with the narcissistic Queen, who was Snow Why’s mother, and a slew of evil step-fathers (who each thought they were the King until the Queen sent them packing as she moved on to her next Fixer-Upper).  Because of her home life, Snow Why spent many years distracting herself with meaningless, and not so meaningless activities.  She tried competing in pageants and doing some modeling (which totally pissed-off the jealous Queen) and tried (unsuccessfully) to find a relationship better than the ones the Queen always found herself in.  Snow Why also loved singing and spent many hours singing and playing piano…convinced that she was going to move to the Big City and become a famous actress/singer.  Once she got to college, Snow Why realized that she didn’t really want to move to the Big City and face the potential failure that faces so many princesses with big dreams, so she became more practical and started focusing on studies in more stable career paths.  She also would frequently find herself singing the same song over and over - “Someday My Prince Will Come” - and wondering why it was taking so long for her prince to find her.  All through college and law school (the best possible place for people who would prefer to ask “Why” than to actually do anything), Snow Why sang her song until…one day…her Prince arrived. 

The Prince and Snow Why dated for three years.  They were very happy, riding around the kingdom on his white steed, having a royal wedding, and eventually settling down in a nice castle that was much bigger than the tiny rented castle they had previously shared. After they finished getting settled, they decided that they would like to have a child.  At first the “trying” to get pregnant was a fun endeavor.  They “tried” in the castle, “tried” in the woods, and even “tried” on the back of the Prince’s mighty steed (much to the steed’s chagrin).  But no matter how hard they tried, month after month they were faced with disappointment.  Soon, Snow Why was peeing on ovulation predictor tests and discussing her cervical mucous with the Prince.  She would meet the Prince at the castle door, as soon as he returned from a hard day of slaying dragons, demanding that they “try” again because it was “O” day.  The problem was, “trying” had become such a chore that neither the Prince nor Snow Why were having much luck achieving “The Big O”…which really made it difficult for them to keep trying.  Even with some magic blue pills that Snow Why scored from a Wizard, the Prince’s sword was not willing to try hard anymore.

Snow Why wondered what was wrong.  Why couldn’t she get pregnant?  Why was she not attractive enough to hold the Prince’s attention “that way?”  Why did she wait so long to start trying for a baby?  Why didn’t she spend more time and effort looking for her Prince before her mid-20’s?  Snow Why decided that there was only thing to do….

TO BE CONTINUED

Mother's Day Madness...in March!

If you follow my blog, you know that I have been waiting over a month for my egg donor to call the donor coordinator and say that she started her period, so that I can start my donor cycle.  After no word for over a month, I finally broke down and called the donor coordinator yesterday to find out what was going on.  She told me that the other recipient (who is sharing the donor’s eggs with us) just finished her mock cycle…that started over a month ago.  Apparently, she had a problem with her mock cycle and so her mock cycle took much longer than anticipated.  Thus, I now have to wait until my donor’s NEXT period to get started on our donor cycle.  The donor coordinator anticipates that the donor’s next period will start in approximately two weeks.  It would have been nice to know that information… oh, I don’t know…like three weeks ago…or whenever everyone else knew we would be waiting an extra month!

Of course, as soon as I got the new information, I replaced my old obsession (when was my donor going to call in?) with a new obsession (when can I expect to do the cycle now that things have changed?).  So here it is…my new “potential” schedule which will inevitably change twenty times before I actually get to an embryo transfer:

Approximate Donor’s Cycle Day 1 –  March 14th

Approximate First Date of Lupron for all ladies involved –  April 4th

Approximate Egg Retrieval Date – April 22nd

Approximate Embryo Transfer – April 25th

Approximate Beta Test Date – Saturday, May 7th or Monday, May 9th

Mother’s Day this year – Sunday, May 8th

So…you see my dilemma.  Mother’s Day is always hard enough.  But this year, I will have to think about (and dread) Mother’s Day for two months before it even comes around.  Assuming that the cycle follows the anticipated schedule, there are three possibilities of how this all shakes out.  If the cycle starts running even a little bit late, I will know that I will be stuck in my two week wait during Mother’s Day, which is a worst case scenario for a worrier like me.  If the cycle picks up momentum and moves along faster than anticipated, I will have to waiver between hoping for my best case scenario – finding out I am finally a mother “on” Mother's Day – and my absolute worst case scenario – finding out I am NOT a mother right before Mother’s Day.  Two out of the three scenarios leave me crying just thinking about them…really, actually crying.  And the “good” possible scenario, while amazing and wonderful and what I've been waiting for years to achieve, is clouded a little, too, by this schedule…as only the Prince and I will actually know that I am pregnant on Mother's Day, because I decided long ago that I wouldn’t tell anyone until I saw a heartbeat.  I may have to go through Mother's Day, getting the usual condolences about another year without a baby from friends, and commiserating with my infertility friends about how badly Mother's Day sucks, all the while keeping the secret that I'm actaully pregnant.  I'm not good at deceit.  And no matter which of the three scenarios comes to fruition, I will get the added bonus of being pumped full of estrogen and progesterone at the time…adding to the “fun” of it all. 

The Prince is going to have to move out if we are going to make it through that time frame…because I know who I am…I know who I am on those meds…and I know who I am going to end up being with all of this on my mind while I am on those meds.  It won’t be pretty.  If he can survive the next couple of months with me…he truly is a prince.

I feel selfish and mean saying this, but why couldn’t the other recipient have just finished her mock cycle in a timely fashion?  I know it is horrible that she had to go through what I’m sure was a nerve-wracking ordeal for her.  But this Pissed-Off Princess had plans!  Specifically, my plan was to be announcing to everyone that I was finally a mother (baby heartbeat and all)…on Mother's Day…or to be on a trip on Mother’s Day, avoiding the reality that our last hope failed.  Now I have to scramble, regroup and try to find a way to set aside what could become an overwhelming panic-attack-causing anxiety for two whole months….and feel guilty that I am irritated that the other recipient’s mock cycle didn’t go as planned.  I guess I just have to have someone to be angry at about the way this is working out and she’s the person most emotionally removed from me in all of this, so it has to be her.  I keep thinking “Stop being a brat and just breathe through this,” but it has been almost 24 hours since I got the news about the cycle from the donor coordinator, and I still can’t help how I feel.  I was already terrified of this cycle not working...now I am terrified of so much more than that.  I feel like doom is swooping in on me, and I don't know if I can shoo it away.  If I make it through this cycle mentally intact, it will be proof of the existence of miracles.